


One of Him

by Emptynarration



Category: Youtube RPF, Youtube egos
Genre: (i mean he rips his eyes out thats self harm), (in a way), Author turns into Host, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Gore, Injury, Insanity, Murder, Name Changes, Permanent Injury, Self-Harm, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emptynarration/pseuds/Emptynarration
Summary: Another story of how the Author turned into the Host.But the Host isn't as you know him.





	1. Chapter 1

He wasn't sure when it had started.

There were voices in his head, filling it like narrations of a book. It was bothersome, to say the least. It reminded him of how his own voice was heard by his characters, how they could hear him as he wrote their stories.  
In the beginning, he had been fine with it. Truthfully, it had given him new ideas for stories and things to do with his characters.

After a few weeks of that, it got hard to concentrate on just _one_ though. There were a _lot_ of voices filling his head, and he found himself stopping his writing because it all was nonesense.  
It frustrated him, and he found himself out with his bat more often than not. Smashing whatever got in his way, whoever found their path colliding with his own.

And then, it all spiralled down.

He felt like he was the protagonist in a bad horror game, truthfully. He saw shadows moving where they shouldn't, he saw things move out of the corner of his eyes though nothing happened or changed. He heard sounds that shouldn't be here, added on top of the voices in his head.

It was driving him mad.

Author's hands were buried in his hair, gripping tightly, sitting at his desk. Sounds were surrounding him that weren't there, voices spoke in his ear, screamed from the outside, making him unable to even hear his own thoughts.  
His head hurt, it was throbbing with pain, and he felt absolutely terrible. He had no clue why it was happening, it hurt, his whole head hurt.

Trying to start a new story, of course it spiralled out of control.  
The protagonist had been in his forest -which was dangerous in itself- but normally no one could find his cabin. And it was still true, if only Author hadn't written down another piece of nonsense that was in his head, which just happened to allow the protagonist to find his cabin.

And find him.

Author was taken by surprise when the guy -Dan, his name was, pretty sure Author had written that- came up to him with a knife clutched in his hands. Dan was trembling, filled with anxiety and extensional threat -mostly from Author's writing- and a _whole lot of __**rage**_.  
Author barely noticed, just in time to dodge the incoming stab that would've very much killed him if it had hit. Dan didn't give a shit, continuing to attack, slashing and stabbing at Author, while Author reached for his bat to defend himself.

“Fuck-”, Author hissed in pain when Dan managed to hit his arm, blood quickly dripping from his arm. He gripped his bat and swung at Dan, mostly aiming to get the knife out of his hands.  
It was a bit of a struggle before Author managed, the knife clattering to the ground. Dan wasn't letting that stop him though, grabbing the bat and yanking, a tug of war between him and Author.  
And Author would've won, if his head didn't mess with him again. Another vision, as he started to call it, hit him square in the face. His grip on his bat loosened, and Dan was able to rip it out of his hands, moving it quickly and swinging it at Author.

It connected with Author's head, a sharp gasp leaving him as he stumbled, clutching his head. It made everything worse, his head was swinging, and Author barely managed to fall to his knees to dodge another swing of the bat at him. He grabbed the knife from the ground, grabbing Dan's pant-leg to boost himself up slightly and stab the knife into Dan's middle. His sight was swimming, his head was throbbing, his mind filled with words and feelings that overwhelmed him.  
Dan cried out when he was stabbed, dropping the bat to grip at Author, the knife, anything.

Author had an iron grip on the knife, ripping it out of Dan again, holding onto Dan's wrist as he tried to grab for him again, pulling himself up to stab Dan again, into his chest, over and over, until Dan crumbled to the ground, and Author with him, and he kept stabbing into him, over and over and over, blood coating the ground, covering his hands, his arms, his shirt.  
Until he dropped the knife, panting, sitting back on his knees, his head throbbing with pain, with the voices in his mind, and he just wanted it to _stop_.

“Why won't it _stop_...”, Author muttered to himself, running his bloody hands through his hair. It had grown longer in the past... weeks? Had it been weeks, or had it been months already? The blood on his hands slicked it back, the slightly curly strands no longer falling into his face.  
The voices were whispering in his ear, while others were shouting at him, he could see people around him, he could see himself, he could see twisted versions of himself, doing things, saying things, and it hurt, it hurt so much.

And then, all versions of himself turned to him.

And stared.

Blood dripping from their cheeks.

Eyes a solid black.

Holes where their eyes should be.

A golden stripe adorning their otherwise dark hair.

Long.

Slicked back.

Like his own.

Author screamed, hands curling into fists over his eyes, as he hunched over into himself, feeling the blood on his hands smearing over his skin, and his head was filled with _laughter_.  
He hated it, he needed it to just _stop_. Why couldn't it just stop? He wanted it, he _needed_ it to stop, and he was trembling, tears were mixing with the blood, rolling down his cheeks and dripping down. Making him look like those versions of him.  
Making him one of them.

One of them.

He peeked through his fingers, seeing them -seeing _himself_\- surround him, grinning, blood dripping down their cheeks, eyes hollow, empty. Missing.

He stared at them, blood coating his face, dripping down with the tears slipping from his eyes, looking like he was crying blood. Just like them. Just like himself. He looked at the knife, still on the ground, laying in a pool of blood, near the cooling body of some random guy he had wanted as his protagonist.  
He grabbed the knife, the voices of _himself_ filling his head.

_Do it_

_Take them_

_One of us_

_Another one_

_Do it_

_ Do it_

_ ** Do It** _

Author plunged the tip of the knife into one of his eyes, screaming at the pain, gasping for breath through the pain, the knife clattering to the ground, shaky fingers digging into his eyesocket, scratching, pulling, the goop of his eyeball disgusting beneath his fingers, falling to the ground with wet squelches. He couldn't bring himself to look at it, his sight cut in half, and he could feel the warm blood on his face, running down, coating his lips in red, and he didn't care.  
Instead he grabbed the knife again, with unsteady hands, needing to use both hands. The handle was slippery with blood, his grip unsteady with the blood coating his hands. He was shaking, he could see it in the constant movements of the knife, and he licked his lips, feeling dry even though they were coated in blood, and he didn't care.

He stabbed his remaining eye, choking on a breath, the knife clattering to the ground, into the pool of blood, splattering it onto him even more. But he didn't care, he clawed at the remains of his eye, until they joined the rest of the gore on the ground, and he sobbed, and he laughed, as blood dripped from his eyes and to the ground, and everything was silent, blissfully silent, his head empty of voices and feelings, and his sight, dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be something different............  
Maybe another chapter will come, where the Host isn't as you know him  
cus it was inspired by art  
and idk  
need some different host  
who isnt a timid little BITCH OKAY


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this whole chapter on my phone  
No proof-reading  
So excuse if anything is weird lol

There had always been… mixed feelings, about him. The other egos had always been different than him, and he had always been different than them.

It wasn’t like they were fundamentally different. Author had been a murderer and killer like many of the others -just alone Wilford killed probably three times as much as he had. The only real difference was, probably, that… He enjoyed it.  
He quite liked bringing pain upon others. Tormenting them for years, writing them into his books, to publish and all the world to see. It was its own kind of beautiful, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than the suffering of others.

And that was what made him different from the rest of the egos.

When Author had been new, he had been alone in his cabin. Unsuspecting, writing his stories, hiding in his hoodie in the cold cabin of the forest he found himself in. Writing and speaking to his protagonist as he went along, making up stories of horrors and murders.  
And then one day, Dark had found him. As head of the bunch, it was to be expected that he knew of new egos and came to bring them all together. Author had merely wanted to stay on his own, enjoying his solitude, enjoying the old little cabin he called his home.  
He did go to the manor with Dark, though. See where they were, listen to the explanations as to what they were, where they were, _why _they were.

The manor wasn’t his home. It was too loud, even with only a handful of others, and something just always felt incredibly off about it all.  
Author suspected it was the shattered mirror no one seemed to notice. Dark clearly did, if Author were to guess. Whenever he stood in front of it and looked into the broken pieces reflecting hundreds of himself back at him, Dark seemed to stare at him intently, if he caught him doing so. He never said anything about it, though.  
So Author didn’t either.

It was kind of funny, thinking back on it. How he had seen hundreds of himself, dozen broken little pieces that made him up. And then they terrorised him in his own home, driving him insane.  
He supposed it could’ve been worse. He could be dead. Not that laying on the cold hard ground, in a pool of blood, with two gaping holes in his face was any better.  
Author was aware he would bleed out if he stayed here like this. But he wasn’t sure what other choices he really had. The manor was quite a bit away from here, and he was coated in blood. He wasn’t really sure anyone would be happy to see him.

He didn’t think anyone really…. _Hated _him. No one really _liked _him either, though. He was always different from them, and, sure, he might be hurt King before, and the Jims, but, could you blame him? They, the _egos _were so different. He had been curious, he had wanted to know. And he couldn’t harm himself much or else he couldn’t really notice what made him and a human different.  
King and the Jims just had been easiest. So what, they had some scars left, but it wasn’t like he had nearly killed them or anything. And it had only been once! Or twice. But, not more than twice. And that’s been quite some time ago, so their anger and fear had mostly disappeared.

Author had heard they had a doctor now. Some new ego, a month or so younger than him, he hadn’t much cared. He wasn’t really sure if he’s met the man before, so probably not. He wouldn’t just forget one of them, would he?  
He felt like he was forgetting an awful lot lately, though. Probably because of the voices that had been in his head. The ones that were silent, now that he was bleeding out. Perhaps he was dying, and they decided to shut up for once.  
He really didn’t want to die. His story wasn’t over yet, was it? Or perhaps it was, and a new one would be started. It seemed…. strange, though. As far as he knew, the egos didn’t just fundamentally _change_. Sure, someone like Wilford or Dark might get more lore to them, seeing how they weren’t just one video egos, but changing someone completely? That’s definitely never happened before. Making an ego into someone else.  
Maybe he was the exception in that too. If he was the one out of everyone to have a sadistic streak, why shouldn’t he also be the one to change from Author into something else?  
It didn’t really seem fair, that he had to be the different one in everything, but he supposed _someone _had to be the black sheep in the family.

Family. He supposed the egos were that, weren’t they? Not that he was a part of that. He was different. No one liked him, and certainly no one wanted him around.  
Still, he didn’t fancy bleeding out in his cabin because he ripped his eyes out.  
He was weak, as he tried to push himself up. Hands barely able to support himself, the ground slippery from the blood. It’d get soaked into the wood, keeping it forever stained. Not that he’d really care much.  
Managing to get into a sitting position, his head was swimming. If he had sight still, it would probably be swimming too. He didn’t suppose it mattered much anymore though, what his sight would or wouldn’t do. He didn’t have it anymore, after all.

He reached up to his desk, bloody hands staining papers and books that were still strewn over it. He pulled himself to his knees, panting, lips parted. He could taste blood, and he’s never liked the taste of blood, and he was certain if he swallowed much more of it he’d throw up. So, better not do that. Keep the blood outside of him, thank you.  
He felt around for his pen, gripping it tightly when he found it, and dragged a notebook close. He was dizzy. He needed someone to help him, or he’d probably pass out and really bleed out.  
He carefully opened a page, somewhere in the middle, and wrote. Carefully, trying not to stain his writing with blood. Not that it mattered much, since his writing was already terrible.  
Setting a period after the sentence, he dropped the pen, and he crumbled to the ground, barely conscious anymore. Everything hurt, he felt drained beyond belief, and hey, maybe he _would _die now.

He didn’t think anyone would really miss him, truth be told.

-

The first thing he noticed were the bandages tied tightly around his eyes.  
It was good. Nicer than having them open and drip blood continuosly down his face. He supposed now it would soak into the bandages though. Still, better than if they ran down his face. He doubted his skin would be very happy about it.  
Another thing making him different. His skin. Vitiligo. He wasn’t sure why he had it, though perhaps because he wasn’t thought up by the one who played him. And even if his videos didn’t have the same appearance as he really looked, he supposed he, too, was just a character someone had written in a script, and thought of looking as different as the writer wanted. He had had golden eyes too, after all, and now he didn’t have any eyes at all anymore. So really, some white patches of skin covering him wasn’t all that strange. It was just a sign clear as day that screamed “Author”. Or perhaps it screamed “This was once the Author, no idea who this is now though”. He wondered, was he still the same man? The same ego?

He supposed, probably not. Still the same body, but a different person. In a way. He was still himself, while also not. Himself had changed.  
He was just one of hundreds of broken pieces, and just so happened to be conscious of that fact.

He noticed, then, that he was laying in some sort of bed. A gurney perhaps? Maybe just some normal hospital bed. Did they have something like that in the manor. He supposed if they had a doctor, he would have some sort of clinic room. Though, how real of a doctor was he? Someone with a real PhD? Or just some character who’s called a doctor?  
He supposed if he could be so strangely different from the rest of the egos, a real doctor wouldn’t be so far fetched as it might seem to be. At least there was a professional to look at the wounds he had inflicted on himself.  
He didn’t even remember how he got here. Or what he had written to be saved, honestly. He had been extremely out of it, and he could barely remember anything. He knew he had stabbed Dan to death, had ripped his eyes out, and eventually passed out after writing something so he wouldn’t die. Any thoughts he had had, or memories of what he might have written, were completely missing. He supposed it wasn’t all that weird, was it?

Tuning in to what was happening outside of his own thoughts, he noticed. He felt like… he knew what his surroundings looked like, while also not having a single idea. If he were asked, he’d say he was on a bed, and there were two more to his right. He was in the corner of the room. There were machines and monitors he didn’t care about. A little table and three chairs stood on the wall opposite the beds.  
He had no clue why he knew that, or if he was imagining things to how he would expect them to be like. Did he really know, or was he just feeling that he wouldn’t be able to be seen from the door that lead into this room? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t really care.  
He noticed, then, that his thoughts were a little…. Tangled. Perhaps. Maybe he should rather say intertwined. There were these voices again, or, one voice, this time, that was narrating again. Like what he usually would write for a book, was being spoken, and it confused him.

And then he noticed, he heard, his own voice. Huh. Seemed like he had been talking to himself this entire time. Which, truthfully, was pretty weird. Not that he had never talked to himself before, but this sounded just like…. the narrations… Okay, so, perhaps it wasn’t his thoughts mingled with narrations, but his thoughts mingled with his own voice speaking. Narrations? He felt kind of stupid, but he was glad his voice was barely above a whisper anyways.  
Which brought his attention to something else yet again. He hadn’t said his name once since he woke up, had he? Author. That was him, wasn’t it? Or, perhaps, it wasn’t anymore.  
An author wrote. Stories, fantasy, books. An author wrote down their words, and most often shared them with someone or other, and an author typically wasn’t blind. He supposed. So, did he really still fit to the title of an author?  
He hummed slightly, thinking. Perhaps not. He didn’t think he could pick up a pen again any time soon. Perhaps one day, but not for some time. Not in the next few days, or perhaps weeks. He wasn’t sure yet. It would come to him, probably, like these words came to him as well.

One of hundreds of broken mirror pieces. He wondered if he’d still notice the mirror. Probably. He remembered it still, after all, so he didn’t see a reason as to why he shouldn’t still notice it. Perhaps with these narrations he was mumbling. He wasn’t sure if he was glad he couldn’t look into the mirror anymore or not. It had always unnerved him, in a way. Hundreds of himself, broken pieces making one whole. And an all consuming darkness, numbing, offering false comfort while also taking everything away.  
And of course, the person trapped in the mirror. He could see them -had been able to see them- and he never wanted to again. Eternally covered in blood, a gunshot wound in their middle, hands covered in red. He never remembered their face, or what they looked like. He never had cared much.

The door was opening, and someone stepped inside. Doctor Edward Iplier, his mind supplied helpfully, all the while as he was speaking aloud. His own voice quiet, just a whisper, and the doctor couldn’t hear it. He walked over anyways, probably to check up on Author -or what once had been Author, and now was someone else, something else- and noticed his lips moving, without understanding what he was saying.  
“Author?”, Edward asked, and Author moved his fingers. He hadn’t tried to move at all so far, and the sensation of bending and stretching his fingers was strange.  
“You’re awake. That’s good. I was worried you might never be.”, Edward said, an awkward chuckle leaving him. They had never properly met before, so Author wasn’t surprised by the other’s awkwardness in this situation. He ought to thank the doctor, though.  
“Oh, uhm, no need to. It’s kind of my job to take care of everyone.”, Edward said, and he was fiddling with the stethoscope around his neck, and Author wondered how loud he had spoken for the doctor to reply.  
“He’d like to thank the doctor anyways.”, He wasn’t about to be rude, after all, not when Edward had most likely saved his life.

“Oh, well, uhm. You’re welcome.”, Edward said, a small smile that was probably awkward again gracing his lips.  
“What are you saying?”, Edward asked then, curious about the Author’s constant mumbling. As answer, he merely received a shrug, though.  
“He isn’t too certain himself. Many things happened, and his mind was pretty jumbled from it still. He doesn’t even really notice he’s speaking in the first place.”, Which made it all the more weirder, because he wasn’t really sure what he said out loud for the doctor to hear and understand, and what he was mumbling about. If it weren’t for Edward giving him replies, he would’ve thought he wasn’t even speaking in the first place -weirder things have definitely happened.  
“Oh.”, Was Edward’s reply, which made the Author give an amused exhale. Neither knew the other, and neither really knew what to do with the other.  
“You should…. probably eat something. Yeah. I’ll- I’ll go and bring you some food.”, Edward said then, turning on his heel and leaving again quickly. It didn’t strike Author as odd, though he was still battling over the name.

It didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. Was it his name, or had it been his name and now it wasn’t anymore? Perhaps it was just what defined him, what he was and not who. He had been an author, but now, he wouldn’t be anymore. What was he now? He spoke, he talked, he narrated like a host on a podcast, or reading a book out loud.  
Perhaps that was what he was now. A host. To what words came to his mind and tumbled from his lips. So if he had been Author, the author, perhaps now, he should be Host, the host.  
He didn’t think it was a bad name. The Host. It was different, but he was also different. Perhaps not fundamentally, just like the egos weren’t fundamentally different, but still different enough. A new name, a new power, while still the same person, the same body. Changed, but not gone, different, but not what he was.  
He was an ego. He changed reality through words -forst written, then spoken. He was blind to the world, and now, he’s blind for the world.

He’s not so different now than he had been. He was still himself, he was one of hundreds of pieces of himself, and he didn’t much mind anymore. At least not so much he couldn’t tell what was supposed to be right, and what was supposed to be wrong. Who could say what was “supposed to be” anyways.

He wondered, faintly, about what was to come. What would happen.

He knew, faintly, that there were millions of possibilities, and he knew each and every one of them.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author you _little bitch_  
Other versions of you need WEEKS up to MONTHS  
To decide they're Host!!! and you!!! DO THAT IN THE HOUR OF WAKING UP  
What a bitch  
can you imagine  
the _nerve_
> 
> anyways gonna make a third chapter cus you still can't really tell how he even is like and shit


	3. Chapter 3

Host had to stay with Edward for a week or so, so the doctor could take care of his wounds, and give him time to get used to his new blindness. It also gave him time to get used to these narrations that were now a fundamental part of him.

Funny, how he now thought of it as a fundamental change. He supposed changing ones name and powers was pretty fundamental though, so he wasn’t too surprised. Ever the outlier he was, wasn’t he?

He was constantly mumbling, narrating his thoughts, his feelings, and those from the people around him -mainly Edward, of course, since no one else visited, but still. Host was pretty certain he’d do it for everyone around him, and, judging by how he could also tell if someone was merely nearby, it was already happening anyways. Not that he was really bothered by it, but hiding your own thoughts and feelings could be pretty hard when you were constantly saying them out loud. At least his voice wasn’t really that loud, all things considered. He was usually speaking pretty soft and quiet, not keen on letting Edward hear every word he was saying, as well as not wanting to draw attention upon himself. That would happen sooner or later, once he actually left the clinic.

Edward did inform him that he had a room here, though. The Author had had a room here anyways, since all egos had a room, but he’s never used it. He never really felt welcome here, yet alone like he could stay here. Host wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay here either. If he felt too uncomfortable here, he probably wouldn’t. He didn’t fancy being uncomfortable his entire time if he could avoid it just as well.  
He would have to redecorate his cabin, though. He couldn’t exactly read his old works anymore, and he couldn’t write new ones -probably. He may could. He’d have to try, some time. But he would need something else to occupy himself with, most likely, or at least something more interesting than staring into nothingness while doing nothing, alone in the quiet of his cabin.

Once Host had a grasp on his powers, and could use his new Sight, as he called it, a bit better, _and_ Edward was certain that Host was alright and the bleeding should be okay as long as he didn’t let it get too much, he left the clinic.

Stepping foot into the manor.

He let his narrative words wash over him, speaking softly of where he stood, what his surroundings looked like, and what to expect. He knew of most egos, and his narrations filled him in where he didn’t know. It was a weird sort of strange, to know nothing but also everything. Not letting it be told by a person was, admittedly, very strange.

He walked slowly, then, careful. He remembered the layout of the manor vaguely, though his narrations helped greatly in getting around. Perhaps he was using them to just make himself able to, he wasn’t sure, how would he be able to know? He was constantly muttering anyways, there wasn’t really a way for him to know if he and how he used his powers. So far, he was only certain of having Sight, something to replace his lost sight with something much better, deeper, easier to understand everything and everyone around him.  
His feet brought him close to the mirror, and he halted. It was dark, black, pulling into a false sense of security, while also causing the feeling of dread. Host could feel the gaze of the District Attorney -the name now coming to him through his narrations- lay heavily upon him, he could feel the pain of their never healing wounds, and he bit his lip.  
Shaking his head lightly, he mouthed “sorry” at them, before he left the mirror where it was, broken into hundreds of pieces, reflecting him over and over again, each the same while also different.

It was Dark who found him first, then. Truly, Host was just wandering around, but he supposed he was also a little lost. Not knowing what to do, where to stay, what to think. Think other than what he was saying, at the very least.

“Author.”, Dark said, and Host winced slightly.

“He wasn’t the Author anymore just as Dark wasn’t the twins anymore. He didn’t like being called that name, if only because it belonged to someone now dead and replaced.”, Host’s voice was loud enough for Dark to hear, then, and he knew that Dark was wincing as well,being reminded of not being just one mere being, but an amalgamation of different beings, inside or pushed out, sleeping or awake, changed or old. It didn’t matter, just like Author didn’t matter anymore.

“What is your name now, then.”, Dark stated more than asked, and Host would’ve rolled his eyes if he had any. He didn’t suppose you had to have them to mentally do so though.  
“The Host.”, He answered simply, and holding a conversation was weird, because what he was saying was like narrations, but he narrated how he said it as well, then, and it confused him as well as bothered him, and he would prefer if he could just keep mumbling instead of having to properly talk.

“Host.”, Dark echoed, and Host nodded lightly. It felt good, to be called Host, to be acknowledged as this new ego, this new person, this new being. It was new to him, still, even after a week of using it, of having Edward use it, but he liked it. He knew he could keep this name and know that that was him.  
“The Host wondered if Dark intended on keeping him here. He isn’t too sure yet if he’d prefer to stay in his cabin, still, or if staying here would be wiser.”, He was still not sure what anyone thought of him. Dark was clearly a little wary of him, but it had been so long ago that he’s hurt any of the egos, so truthfully it shouldn’t matter too much, right? He’s behaved for so long, stayed nicely away in his cabin and only used humans in his writings, and only ever hurt himself if he was curious about something related to the egos.

It was no wonder he was littered in scars. Still wearing one of his own black shirts, the sleeves pushed up, showed the raised lines of scars, the whitened patches -not from vitiligo- of different burns. Fire, ice and acid, cuts of rusty old and dull knives to cuts from the sharpest of scalpels. Grooves from missing flesh, cut out, though at least not many. He’s never been afraid of hurting himself for the sake of his writing, and if he sometimes thought he deserved the pain, who would care?  
So he didn’t care either, and added scars to scars, and by now, he wasn’t sure what was scar and what wasn’t, nor where he got half of them.

“You can stay here, if you like.”, Dark said, taking in Host’s appearance, his constant mumbling to himself that Dark couldn’t make out. He didn’t suppose it mattered much, since he didn’t really care what Host was mumbling about, even if it was constantly without much of a break.  
Host nodded lightly in reply. He could, if he wanted to, but he wasn’t sure yet himself. So he’d rather wait some, though he’d stay a few days anyways. He still had to get used to everything, and he needed time to think as well. So, staying here it was, if only for just a few days.  
“The Host thought about continuing his exploration of the manor, knowing he’ll meet some of the other egos residing here as well. If Dark would excuse him; he surely has more work to do as well.”, Host turned again to leave, continuing to walk around. Pretty much ignoring whatever Dark said -he knew it was just some sort of goodbye anyways, so it didn’t matter too much to him. He’d much rather meet the rest of the bunch.

As far as Host was aware -and he was aware of almost everything by this point- in the manor lived Dark, Wilford, the Jims, King, Edward, an android named Google, and a show host named Bim trimmer. So two new ones he hadn’t met before, and probably didn’t know much about Author regardless. Host wanted to doubt anyone had told them about him, why should they have, after all?  
As he walked through the halls, he missed his bat. He definitely had to go back to the cabin if only to get his things. His bat, and his books, and whatever else he had. He didn’t necessarily need anything else, and his books were just sentimental items now anyways. Unless he got them into braille somehow -which reminded him that he had to learn braille as well. He supposed it couldn’t be all that hard, and he was a fast learner anyways. He’d be fine.

-

He stumbled upon Wilford, then, the two of the walking right into each other -and while Host may know bits of the future, he still could be surprised by it actually happening. Especially if he tried to be careful as to avoid running into the burly man.  
As it was, they collided though, Host met with the softness of Wilford’s middle. Why did this man have to be such a teddy bear? It was largely unfair that walking into him could feel close to a hug.

Wilford laughed lightly and wrapped his arms around Host, making him squeak in surprise, which in turn made him blush.  
“The Host would appreciate if he were let go, even though he can’t deny that a hug from Wilford feels nice.”, He said, and Wilford laughed softly again, gently squeezing Host before letting go, letting Host take a step away and rub over his reddened cheeks.  
“Host, huh?”, Wilford asked with a grin, and Host nodded lightly.  
“Author didn’t fit the Host anymore, he explained to Wilford, so he chose to rather be called Host. He felt like it fit him more.”  
Wilford hummed and nodded, and he curiously listened to what Host was muttering, making the blind ego blush more. It was embarrassing, since Wilford understood him pretty well -the advantages of having a slurred speech himself.

“You’ve gathered a few more scars since I’ve last seen you.”, Wilford said, gently taking one o f Host’s arms, running his fingertips over the multicoloured skin. Feeling the bumps beneath, frowning slightly.  
“The Host doesn’t think Wilford should worry about such. The Author was reckless and uncaring, and the Host doesn’t much mind. They’re just reminders of who he’s once been, and what he’s done to people, no matter if human or ego.”.  
“But Author hasn’t hurt anyone in a long time. I remember him having half the scars you have now.”, Wilford countered, and Host shrugged slightly. He truly hadn’t thought Wilford would even remember such things.  
“I may be forgetful, but I remember my fellow friends pretty well.”, Wilford said and huffed, smiling as he let go of Host’s arm again. Host rubbed his hand over it, feeling the lingering warmth and tingles of Wilford gentle touch still.  
“The Host nodded slightly. He supposed it makes sense Wilford wouldn’t just forget everything, just because he’s forgotten so much already. It’s in the man’s nature to care for his friends and family.”, Host said softly, and Wilford smiled, nodding.

“Will you stay with us now? Since… you’re blind, and all that.”, Wilford said, with a few hand motions. He was always very animated while speaking, Host could tell, and he never had minded much.  
“The Host isn’t sure yet. He’ll be staying a few days at least, but he’s uncertain if he’d prefer his cabin over the manor. Wilford will see just like Host will once the time comes.”, Host replied, and Wilford nodded with a hum. It was understandable, a lot had changed, and Wilford knew Author had never liked change much.  
“Come by the studio, if you’d ever like!”, Wilford invited then, with a big ole grin on his face. It made Host roll his eyes slightly -if he could, it was just a motion of his head, perhaps he should call it that, then- but also smile lightly.  
“The Host will make sure to come visit.”, He said, and Wilford beamed, nodding, before slipping off to do whatever it was he did all day.

-

Host decided to go outside then, having gone through most of the house by now. He knew he’d find Google in his office, and Bim in the studio, but he was hoping to find King, or the Jims. He knew they were the ones he had hurt, and King especially, but he hoped they’d be fine now. It’s been so long after all, and none had permanent damages or scars left. Any scars they had had should be faced by now.  
And Host was really sorry for it too. Author had been dumb, naive, believing he was stronger than anyone and could do whatever he wanted. And whilst he was a very strong individual, he wasn’t a god, and he wasn’t all knowing or all mighty. He had just been another ego, another grain of sand on the beach, another gear in a machine. Nothing special, no matter how special he had thought he was.

And, truly, being so different from everyone else should make him special, make him different, but he still felt like he was just one of many. Perhaps, this time, because he knew there were dozen of hims, doing what they did, not doing what they didn’t. He was just one of a hundred to millions of copies, just one little glimpse of all the different things he could have been a part of, or could have achieved.

He was just one of the many broken mirror pieces, staring back at him through the darkness, with hollowed eyes and blood dripping from his chin.

Sitting outside in the grass, it were the Jims who had found him. Doing what they always did, with their strange antics and movements, making Host smile lightly as he narrated it to himself. It was endearing, in a strange sort of way.  
“Jim! It’s Jim. But different.”, Jim said to Jim, and Jim nodded, camera zooming into the blind ego, as the two waddled closer to him.  
“The Host greeted the Jims as they came into hearing range, listening to the twins’ talking about him.”, Host said, and Jim squeaked, turning to Jim.  
“Jim! Jim talked about us. Is he a different Jim?”, Jim said, warily looking towards Host.  
“He seems like the bad Jim, Jim.”, Jim said, and Jim nodded lightly. They didn’t get closer to Host, not trusting him, they stayed where they were.  
“The Host would like to apologize to the Jims. He knows they know he was the Author, once. But, I am the Host. And he wishes for the Jims to get to know a new person, and accept him.”, Host said, staying seated where he was, unassuming and nonthreatening. He didn’t want to evoke any sort of negative feelings if he could help it, and he hoped the Jims would understand and give him a chance.

The Jims talked a bit among themselves, before nodding slightly and making their way over to Host. He smiled lightly at them, not moving from his spot, even as they walked around him.  
“So, a new Jim?”, Jim asked, and Host nodded lightly. “No more mean writer Jim?”, Jim asked then, and Host nodded again.  
“Blind Jim?”, Jim suggested, and Jim nodded enthusiastically. “Blind Jim! Bloody too. Bloody blind Jim.”, Jim said, and Jim agreed, nodding.  
Host smiled lightly, amused by their antics, though he was also still a bit annoyed at how they acted. Author had always hated it, but Host could…. tolerate it. Hopefully.  
“The Host is glad the Jims are giving him a chance. He truly doesn’t wish for them to fear or hate him in any sort of way.”, And he really hoped that King would as well. He didn’t want the man afraid of him or hate him, but he also would understand if he’d rather keep his distance.

-

The Jims spend some time “interviewing” the Host, filming him excitedly, and they were quick to accept he wasn’t the Author anymore, but is a different person. Still the same in some way, but also completely different. It was very hard to try and explain, and the Jims had a field trip recording that.  
After the Jims were gone, Host was alone again. Sitting peacefully by himself, enjoying the sun, and the breeze. He knows he still has to meet two other egos he’s never met, but… Well, he liked being here a bit more at the moment.

A soft sound pulled him out of his thoughts, and then there was something climbing up on him and onto his head, making him give a surprised sound, and his narrations revealed it to be a squirrel. Said squirrel seemed perfectly happy to nuzzle into his hair, making Host chuckle softly.  
“The Host hopes that the King of the Squirrels won’t feel conflicted over one of his subjects residing in the Host’s hair.”, Host murmured softly, even though he did hope that this would mean King was going to show up soon. He did want to talk to him, especially because he had always been a little traumatised by Author.

When King did show up, he froze, seeing a squirrel in Host’s hair and, by now, a second one in his lap, letting themself be pet by the man. He didn’t even notice the change, the bandages, the blood, the golden strand. He just saw Author.  
“The Host promises the King that the squirrels are perfectly safe and happy.”, Host spoke up, and King looked startled, shifting, fidgeting with his cape, looking down at Host.  
“Host? But- you’re- the Author?”, He questioned, clearly uncertain about it, but… But Author didn’t call himself Host, and his squirrels didn’t trust Author like that either- at least, they never had before. It’d be weird if they suddenly did, right?  
“The Author…. changed.”, Host said, fidgeting slightly, but making sure the squirrel on his lap wouldn’t be disturbed. “The Author as you had known him is gone, now. In his place is the Host. And he wishes to apologize for all he had done when he had been the Author.”.

King looked unsure, but he nodded slowly. Author hadn't hurt anyone in so long, and now he seemed... Host? seemed... really genuine though. King wasn't sure if he should trust him, but he could generally trust his _squirrels_. They always knew if someone was bad or not, some sort of instincts animals seemed to have. He had heard cats, and dogs, and even horses did that. And he knew his squirrels were very smart.  
“Okay.”, King said softly and nodded lightly to himself. “Okay. Host.”.  
The Host smiled softly at King, and then the squirrel in his lap chittered, before climbing up his chest and joining the squirrel already on top of his head. It made Host laugh lightly, and King felt a little bit more at ease.  
King made a noise -like the squirrels made- and the two squirrels on top of Host's head stood to attention. Host held his arm out towards King, and the squirrels hopped down, running over his arm and hopping to King.

King felt better now, and he was glad that the squirrels were alright. Host was smiling softly at him, and King softly smiled back.

-

Host made his way to the studio, then. He wasn't keen on staying yet, not really. There were quite a few egos now, and he felt a little uncomfortable being here. Not terribly so, and not like he had to leave immediately and never come back, but.... living here was still a thought that made him queasy. Perhaps once he got properly used to being blind and using his powers with his speech now.  
He was keeping a hand on the walls as he walked, just to make sure he wouldn't miss anything or something alike. Relying solely on speech was a little strange, still.

Once arrived in the studio, Host could already hear Wilford talking with someone, and that someone would be the ego he didn't know yet -Bim.

“Oh! Hosty!”, Wilford called with a bright smile, and Host felt a lot calmer seeing that Wilford hadn't used his old name. He didn't fancy being called Author, though he knew it would eventually happen.  
“The Host greets Wilford and Bim.”, Host hummed, walking towards the pair. He got a bit more comfortable with with the narrations in his head running through even as he didn't talk. He did still mumble quietly, but he did take small breaks when someone else talked at the very least.

Bim had a bit longer hair, sort of messily combed back in the attempt to be neat. It sort of worked. Wearing a black suit, white button up, and a dark tie. Glasses too, which made the Host wonder again why only some of the egos needed glasses and why most others seemed fine with none. He supposed he could care less, since he didn't have eyes that could need glasses.

Bim looked startled that someone he had never seen before -and someone who was _blind_\- knew his name just like that.  
“He was about to ask the Host about it, when he noticed the man was narrating what was going on, making him hesitant. He wanted to ask how the Host knew, and why the Host was talking like he did, but the blind ego evoke a sense of fear into him, and how he was speaking about this like that made Host creepy; at least in Bim's opinion.”  
“Hosty, I think you're making it worse.”, Wilford said and laughed, clapping a hand onto Host's back, making the blind ego stutter and stop his speech, before he stuck his tongue out at Host.  
“The Host apologizes.”, Host said and sighed, turning to face Bim again, who took a little step back, perhaps a bit startled.  
“I'm- I'm Bim Trimmer.”, Bim said, and he was struggling just a bit to get his usual confidence back. Host was _unsettling_, with how he spoke, how he _looked_. It wasn't something he saw everyday.  
“The Host.”, Host said, and Bim nodded. He had figured as much; it _was_ pretty obvious after all.

“The Host wonders what Bim does. Seeing how he is in the studio with Wilford, he supposes Bim might be some sort of show host or similar, just like Wilford. Though he supposes Wilford is more a journalist than a show host -though he does have his own show...”, Host trailed off, knowing he was rambling a little. Wilford laughed softly, he could still hear Host's mumbling of narrations, and Host was pretty sure Wilford would be the only one to.  
“Oh! I'm a game show host, of Hire My Ass!”, Bim lit up getting to talk about himself, and he happily continued to tell Host all about his show and how it worked like and what he did. Host listened, smiling lightly, and it was nice to hear Bim so passionate.

-

Finding Google was truthfully the easiest. He was told his room was his office, since he was an android and thus didn't actually need a normal room to sleep in, so it didn't seem like he would be hard to find at any point in time.

Arriving at the door, Host knocked. He narrated softly to himself, and soon opened the door. He knew what Google was doing -sitting at his desk and working on his laptop- and he knew his knocking had gained his attention and it was alright to enter now.  
“The Host stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself quietly. Google took note on someone entering and mumbling to themselves, making him turn around to look.”, Host murmured softly to himself, and Google watched. He was very stoic, clearly not atuned to emotions. Host knew Google had them, but they weren't exactly like a “normal” person's. It was hard to describe.  
“The Host informs Google that he is not a new ego, but has merely not stayed in the manor up to this point, and still might not.”, Host new Google was making a file on him, like he had on every other ego. It wasn't very calming, but the Host was aware of it, and what was on it. So there could be worse.

“I'm Google.”, Google introduced himself, because that was “protocol”, aka how a normal conversation would go.  
“The Host.”, Host replied, and Google nodded lightly.  
There was silence for a few moments -except for Host's quiet narrating- and then Google turned back to the laptop to continue working, and Host turned back to leave the room. There wasn't really much else to say between them.

-

Host sat in his room, leaning back on his hands, on the bed. Even here, his head was filled by narrations, knowing what all of the other egos were doing, could be doing, will be doing, won't be doing, should be doing. It was confusing, hearing so much at once, and he wasn't sure what to make of it.  
He was mumbling still, which helped a little. It kept him on track on which narration to actually listen to and follow, since he figured that all he heard were _possibilities. _It was pretty confusing to try and think about, so he wanted to avoid it.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled, letting himself fall onto his back.

He was bored.

His head was full of noise, he couldn't sit down and write -he didn't even have anything to _try_ to write with either- and he didn't have anything else to do either. He didn't have his bat here, he didn't have his violin here, he didn't have _anything_ here. He still needed to learn braille, and get books with it too.  
He sighed again, rubbing his eyes through the bandages. They were itching -they were usually itching, never going to properly heal. He still remembered the feeling of his smushed eyes beneath his fingers as he pulled them out, ripping out the nerves, the pain, the warm feeling of the blood on his face.

He didn't remember how Edward had to properly remove the rest tissue left in his eyes, and trying to take care of them. He didn't remember what he had written to be saved, he had no idea how or who had gotten him out from his cabin and here.  
He wondered, faintly, and he supposed he'd find out once eh got back to the cabin. Maybe he'd stay there for a while, decide if he wanted to stay at the manor or not. What the better option was. And he had to go there anyways, to get his things.

He continued rubbing over his bandages as he thought, laying sprawled out on his bed, legs hanging off. He had no clue yet. Everything was weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4.5k words i swear to god  
urgh  
i dont want to see this chapter anymore its SO LONG NGH  
anyways  
needs at least... one more chapter....... hhhhhh  
gotta let hosty decide and get his shit and then give some little input from the future to see, finally, how he interacts with the egos!! and is like!!!! cus its still not really obvious and shit!!!!! hgh


	4. Chapter 4

His cabin was awfully quiet.

Honestly, he wasn't sure what he had expected. Of course it'd be quiet. But his narrations seemed all the louder, now that he's been away for a few days.  
The body in his study -Dan- was gone. The blood had stained the wooden floor, his own and his victim's. Papers, notebooks, and his pen, covered in his blood, laying on his desk. He could clearly see his struggle to get up and grab what he needed.  
He couldn't help his curiousity, walking to the desk and grabbing the paper he had written so desperately upon. He knew the cabin better than himself, and would never need his narrations to get around. He only needed to softly narrate to himself what was written on the paper.

"The Author dies, and from his ashes, the Host will rise.".

He couldn't help the laugh, gripping the paper tightly. It felt like it was mocking him, laughing in his face. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Maybe that he had written Dark to find him, or even Edward. Maybe that he would've just appeared near the manor and saved.  
But no. He had written the most vague thing, and he was still left without knowing how he actually got to the manor and the clinic.  
He supposed it didn't really matter.  
He laid the paper down again, and sat down at his desk. He could hear the birds outside, the breeze ruffling through leafs, the sounds of his cabin just being here. Here, he had spend his entire existence. Had stayed day and night, until he... Until Author had been killed.  
And now, he was just a host.

He softly narrated then, focusing on his power. It was still new to him, but he had had flashes of the future, and in fits of bad dreams discovered his ability to bend reality. He could still do it, but what once had been written, was now spoken.  
He let all of his books leave his cabin, and go to his little library in the manor. Dark had promised him it could be his, if he stayed. He narrated his more valuable, personal papers to his room. His violin. Some other things of his.  
He was breathing a bit harder, feeling blood soak into his bandages. Using his powers was very draining, and he supposed he had to get used to them first. He was certain, with enough time, he could use them without a problem.

His cabin felt awfully empty, now. The shelves empty, the desk clear -except for that one bloody paper- and most personal touches gone. All that was left were the bloodstains, and one piece of paper, and him.  
Taking a deep breath, Host stood. He picked up the paper from the desk again, shaking his head lightly. Leaving the study, he let go of the paper.

"The Author dies, and from his ashes, the Host will rise.".

The paper caught aflame, falling to the ground, and Host left the cabin behind, leaving its fate to fate. The Author was gone, his past and memories a part of him, but not going to define him. He was the Host, and the Author was gone now.  
If the cabin stood, or went up in flames, didn't matter to him. It was his past, his memories, and wouldn't define him.  
He was a part of their little family in the manor, now. And he hoped to make just as many memories, and let them, and the future, define him.

-

"Host!", Bim called, and Host laughed where he sat in the common room. He never changed from wearing his black shirts and jeans, never finding a need to.  
It didn't take long and Bim came rushing into the common room, his _entire_ being sparkling. From his clothes to his hair and even his skin.  
"As _much_ as I love glitter, did you _have_ to douse me in it?", He asked, pouting as he crossed his arms. Edward was off snickering to the side, while Host was grinning widely.  
"The Host had to indeed. He would love to remind Bim that he had put googly eyes on his bandages last week.", Host said, and Edward couldn't help but laugh to himself, remembering that.

Truly, having seen Host come to the meeting with two big googly eyes sticking to his bandages had been hilarious, and even _Dark_ had been amused by it. Host obviously liked to hold grudges.  
"But that was all in good fun!", Bim tried to defend himself, and Host rolled his "eyes", a slight motions of his head.  
"And this is _also_ good fun. The Host is enjoying himself greatly, as is Edward.", Host hummed and chuckled. "As will be Wilford and the Jims, for that matter.".  
"Oh no they _won't!"_, Bim exclaimed, running his hands through his hair, staring at Host.  
"Oh yes they will. And the glitter will go out with washing and showering.", Host mentioned, just as they could hear the excited voices of the Jims.

"Jim! I have spotted the game Jim! It appears he is the sparkly Jim, Jim!", Jim called, and the two appeared. Bim whined, blushing in embarrassment, as the Jims circled him to take in all of his appearance.  
The Host quietly narrated to himself, and smirked when Wilford popped up as well, then.  
"Oh ho! What do we have here?", He hummed, taking in the scene of the flustered Bim, the Jims, a laughing Edward and grinning Host. "Are you pretending to be a disco ball, Bim?".  
"No!", Bim just wanted to go and try and wash it all off, but the Jims had him pretty much cornered, and Wilford didn't help much with the situation. In fact, the pink man turned to Host with a big grin and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Met with a matching grin from Host, it took a few words of his and the room was suddenly dark.  
Wilford had a flashlight in his hands, and turning it on, shined it directly onto Bim, whose entire being lit up and sparkled brightly.

Wilford, Edward, and Host all broke out into laughter, as the Jims excitedly talked and filmed the sensation. Bim's face flushed a deep red.  
"_Host!_", he cried, and Host merely laughed more. Of course Bim wasn't angry at him, but this was embarrassing!  
"The Host hopes Bim won't play tricks on Host again either.", Host hummed, and Bim whined. It sucked to be on the receiving end!  
"_Fine!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short epilogue I typed up and posted on phone because I can lol  
I know it's not much but yo I'm not good at endings lolololol
> 
> Yeah so I just hope you sorta get that host is a petty little bitch and loves every second of it  
He also still easily angered to a degree but eh  
Maybe one day you'll get a onesie or smth with him depending on ideas and shit lol
> 
> And hey after that monster of a chapter yesterday you can take this short piece


End file.
